


Black Out Days

by LittlexNightingale



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Original Character Death(s), Post-IT Chapter One (2017), Sex, Tragic Romance, Triggers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2020-10-18 00:10:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20629847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittlexNightingale/pseuds/LittlexNightingale
Summary: Life is a story. What does yours say?Haunted by the demons of her past, Evelyn recalls the events that lead up to her tragic death in the spring of 1989.





	1. A Conversation with Death

**Author's Note:**

> In light of the 2019 movie, I decided to put this out. Hopefully I'll get my butt in gear and keep this going. Mind the warnings; this story may seem a little dark to some.

Life is a story. What does yours say? Karen Perkins – by nature, a devoted extrovert – asked this. She no doubt took this quote from one of her erotic novels and applied it into her sessions when inspired.

Frankly, when first asked this, Evelyn snorted in contempt. It was a nonsensical question in her opinion; too vague to answer. She just laughed and shrugged it off, stating that she wasn’t certain. Wasn’t that the reason she was in these sessions? To figure out what her future would bring?

Karen would prattle on non-stop like an old biddy about how important it was for the difficult teen to vent; to tell her story. But then again, there was nothing she already didn’t know about Evelyn. Her file was thick enough to make into a handful of short stories – nothing more could be said.

“I can’t help if you don’t help yourself,” the amiable woman said, one unfortunate afternoon. A new approach was needed. She knew that no progress would be met this day. “Let me rephrase the question a bit, and when you go home, think about it. If I were to write a story with you in the lead role … what kind of story would it be?”

Evelyn immediately knew the answer. Though she opted not to say it, unaware that she’d never meet with Karen Perkins again. In fact, she would never be seen again after this day. Making a promise she’d soon break, Evelyn grabbed her school bag and exited the room – the symbolic final act.

* * *

Evelyn Mathews, or as everybody knew her by: Eve, was 5 when her father passed away – her mother signed away her parental rights shortly after she was born, a story she no longer cared to remember. Her uncle took her in, cared for her a little too much. Subjected to the harsh reality of sexual abuse – more or less for 7 long years – she came to realize that her story was not one for the faint of heart.

Her role, like many who underwent the same horrors, seemed petty. She had no idea how important it would be; how useful it would be to Mike Hanlon 27 years later. However, for it to be told, Evelyn had to die. She never would have expected that in the late spring of 1989 she would lose her life to a circus clown.

Or had it been one at all?

IT – Evelyn wrote, keeping notes in a six inch diary Karen Perkins asked her to maintain; intended to be used as a way to vent her thoughts – had not come to her at first as the clown, but as Jack Mathews; a fat, redundant sack of shit, who in 1986 was bludgeoned to death by a fellow inmate in Shawshank State Prison.

_It could have never been him. He got what he deserved, _Evelyn had to remind herself. Uncle Jack had been dead for nearly three years; out of sight and out of mind. Even so, she had to be sure. The fear was eating her alive.

A week before summer break, the curious teen went back to the most recent location she had seen him; 29 Neibolt Street. Sating her paranoid mind, Evelyn went inside. Her search was quick and over in a matter of minutes as she located the empty, dust covered bedroom that she had been looking for. She pushed the door closed behind her and moved warily across the room.

A window with stained, yellow glass overlooked the street below; the same one Evelyn had seen Jack Mathews standing behind, smiling at her as he motioned for her to come up.

But he wasn’t there, not really.

_Just your mind playing tricks on you, girlie. _Somehow the reassuring words of her foster sister came to haunt her in this moment of peril. Julia Hall didn’t believe her, but she understood why; she was basically nuts. The violent breakdown she had back in December caused all this; caused everybody to pity her. Karen Perkins told her that whatever she had been seeing was only in her mind – years of held in trauma coming to a head.

But she was wrong; Julia was wrong. Something was preying on her fear.

A sudden deep and familiar voice broke the eerie stillness of the house, snarling at her like an old dog. The rattled teen shot a look behind her and was relieved to see that nothing was there – voices were becoming a regular experience. A pleased sigh left her painted lips as she returned her attention back to the scenery outside the window, noticing that the sun was soon to set.

_I really am insane._

Set on going home, she circled around. Except someone blocked her from the door. When she recognized who, Evelyn gasped in shock. Jack was there; he truly was. Only, he was supposed to be dead. The right half of his head was caved it, eye dangling from the socket in a grisly display of blood and optic nerves. It reminded her strongly of paddle ball. She had to control the urge to vomit, biting her tongue between her teeth.

“Evie … you came.” His voice was just as she had remembered; soft and not like a monster should sound.

Her voice was just as gentle. “I h-had to know. But you can’t be h-here, because this isn’t real. I’m sick … sick because of everything you put me through.”

“I’m sorry. You know I’d never hurt you, Evie. You know I lo––

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Evelyn barked. Warm tears blurred her sight, heart beating so loud she could hear it. “You did this … you did this to me.”

She hated it; every bit of it. But seeing him there – illusion or not – it scared her. The shaken teen couldn’t stop her tears.

“Why? Tell me why you’re doing this to me, you fucking bastard? Why are you in my head?”

Jack curled his nose. The eye hanging down on his cheek bobbled. “Don’t lift your voice to me girl. I raised you to show respect. Now bring your ass over here.”

This was the monster she knew. Shaking her head in disagreement, she wanted nothing to do with him. But, his power alone was enough to move her. Evelyn obeyed. She figured that if she was near him, her mind would shatter the illusion. Drifting ever closer, she halted within arms reach and brought up her hand to touch him.

Her extended fingers met flesh; cold dead flesh.

“You’re … real.”

She felt the pain before the awareness of the situation hit her. Jack’s mouth was filled with multiple rolls of sharp teeth, similar to that of a shark. In his mouth was two of her fingers; middle and ring. The bloody remains leaked down his chin like drool.

Screaming in horror, Evelyn slipped on her blood in a violent rush to separate herself from him. The diary she kept in her waistband tumbled out and bounced across the floor. She reached for it, grabbed it with her mangled hand, and tried to flee. However, the monster that was her abusive uncle, again buried his teeth into her neck.

All she saw before she died was the face of a clown; a monster with silver dollar eyes.

_A tragedy … that’s what my story would be._


	2. Shade of Winter

Winter was a delight, a simple change that was both ordinary and pleasing at the same time. Unmarked snow covered the grounds; had been setting all morning. Evelyn blocked the emergency doors behind the stage, looking out at the school yard – she learned from the drama teacher about this place; an escape were the alarm bell was taken out. Drawing in the smoke from her cigarette, the chilled teen released it with a gradual sigh.

  
Indeed a delight.

  
This particular afternoon was silent; a little too silent for a Tuesday in her opinion. Even after hours the school never really stayed quiet, not with committee members and staff running about. It was eerie how dead it was, but Evelyn chose to ignore it. 

  
The swift, bitter wind on her face was just about the only noise she could hear. Up until something fell off the stage behind her and clattered noisily to the floor.

  
The red haired teen shot a look over her shoulder, having to squint her eyes in order to see in the dim light. Something circular rolled along the floor towards her, moving steadily until she could finally see what the object was. A small canister of paint, it looked like. Evelyn let it come to her, not wanting to let the door close before she was done with her cigarette, and caught it with her foot. Ominously, the lip popped open and red paint leaked onto the floor. 

  
“Damn it,” she hissed. Reaching down, she cleaned as much of it as she could with the lid, then popped it back on. As she was doing so, a girl skated around the corner and walked over to her, resting her hands on either side of her slender hips.

  
“What are you doing?”

  
Evelyn glanced up at her, wiping the remnants of paint off her middle and index finger onto her pants. “Cleaning up this mess. You knock this over?”

  
“By accident,” the frizzy haired brunette answered. Her name was Rita Anderson, a girl who Evelyn shared cleaning duties with. She was tolerable; only when she wasn’t tattling for brownie points. “But I wasn’t referring to the paint – I can see that. I was referring to the thing in your mouth.”

  
_It’s a cigarette,_ she wanted to correct her. Instead, she took one last draw and stubbed out the cherry on the sole of her right flat – her red lipstick stained the butt. “It’s gone. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

  
Rita scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Right … well before Mr. Peters sees this, you need to clean it up. I don’t want to report you for smoking, but I will if I have to.”

“That would benefit you, how?”

  
“It wouldn’t benefit me at all,” she snapped. “And neither would it benefit you. Smoking on school grounds will get you thrown in detention; Mr. Peters might even remove you from the drama committee. I’m sure you can see my concerns.”

  
Evelyn did; she saw them clearly. Reputation is everything. Still, she did as asked. Being thrown in detention would only get her in trouble with her foster parents. Tossing the butt outside into the snow, Evelyn let the door slam closed behind her and went searching for a mop. She figured the janitor – Marsh – would be the best bet.

  
As far as she knew, the basement was were the cleaning supplies were being kept; some closet she hoped wasn’t locked. Following the empty hall from the gymnasium, Evelyn went down the stairs and into the basement. Also part of the boiler room, the entire space was muggy and stank of damp, overturned earth. She tried not to breathe in the smell as she navigated around the dim space, searching for the storage closet, but it was hard; the smell was all around her.

  
“Hello … Mr. Marsh. Are you down here?”

  
No answer; she assumed as much. Huffing a sigh of annoyance, Evelyn wanted to circle around and forget about the mess, but a door marked with embossed letters caught her attention. Upon further inspection, it was the door she had been looking for.

  
“I’m taking a mop and bucket from the closet, but I’ll return it when I’m done,” the bored teen yelled. She was sure the janitor wasn’t in the room with her, but in case he was, her intentions were clear.

  
Then again, she may have been wrong. Someone was lingering in the darkness. 

  
Before she grabbed the knob something rattled behind her. Evelyn glanced over her shoulder, seeing nothing but cluttered shelves of old supplies; staplers and boxes of plastic rulers. She returned to the task at hand, but an eerie feeling brought goosepimples to her arms. She felt like someone was watching her.

  
Ignoring it the best she could, the cautious teen pulled open the door and found the light switch – a beaded cord that hung from a single bulb on the ceiling. She gave it a tug, chasing away the darkness, but when she took her guard down, something from behind darted at her and rudely pushed her inside – the door clicked shut, trapping her.

  
Evelyn cried out in shock, having to catch herself from tumbling over into a box of foul smelling sweeper heads, but a hand roughly grabbed her upper arm and hauled her backwards.

  
“Try to scream, and yer dead. Understand?”

  
She recognized this voice; Henry Bowers. Her mind was reeling. But why? What did he want with her? Realization hit her like a tack hammer; she had an idea. 

  
“Answer the question,” he ordered. The blond held her against him, arms draped around her waist and chest.

  
Evelyn nodded in agreement. She opted not to speak, however.

  
“Yer a hard one to catch,” Henry stated. “Been real eager to meet ya for a while; I think ya know why.”

  
Again, she nodded. “I do – I think – but understand it was not my intention to target you.”

  
“Intention or not, I got suspended for that bullshit. Have you any idea how many hours of counseling I have sit through?”

  
_Can’t be any worse than mine,_ the annoyed teen assumed. She took a deep breath and tried to defuse the argument, knowing full well her attempt would be in vain. “I understand, but listen. What you were doing was inappropriate. Marsha wasn’t enjoying it as mu––

  
“What makes you think she wasn’t enjoying it?”

  
Evelyn rolled her eyes in disbelief, but opted not to answer. How ignorant was he? Honestly, could he not hear the fear in poor Marsha’s voice? She asked him not to lay a hand on her. Sick fuck; probably got hard listening to her beg.

  
_It will be a cold day in hell when I beg to this pervert._

  
Henry mistook her silence. His tongue flicked out to wet his bottom lip as he rocked her from side to side like some fucked up slow dance. “I see now. A little jealous, aren’t ya?”

  
This time Evelyn laughed. “Are you high? To believe something like that, you have to be high.”

  
He shook her a little too roughly. “Don’t lie to me.”

  
“Take it easy. You’re hurting me.” She wanted to elbow him in the chest for the unintentional squeeze he gave her, but chose not to on account of pissing him off more. The last thing she needed was to be locked in this closet with him as he pitched a fit. 

  
Evelyn took a deep, needed breath. “This doesn’t have to end with an argument. We can settle this another way.”

  
“I plan to, babe.”

  
She meant to bargain with him; go the office and explain that she was misunderstood. Marsha wouldn’t appreciate it – Henry would almost certainly get his suspension revoked – but at this point, she honestly didn’t care. It was ignorant on her part telling on him, because she knew it would get back to him. Evelyn shouldn’t have been surprised that he took this as an indication to fuck her, but she did.

  
Specially after he turned her around and released her just to stare closely at her. Evelyn didn’t know what to think. She had never been looked at so intensely before. When she opened her mouth to question him, the obscene blond raised up his arm and pressed his thump against her fleshy painted lips. 

  
She was beyond disgusted – there was no telling where his fingers had been – but this allegation slipped away whenever he leaned closer. Was he going to kiss her? Evelyn was intrigued.

  
Though, before anything could happen, the door came open and nearly hit Henry in the back.

  
“What are you two doing in there?”

  
Evelyn snapped out of her daze and moved under his arm, darting passed Mr. Marsh on her way out – careful not to show her face – and pushed her way up the stairs.

  
Fuck that! She was going home. Fuck Rita Anderson! She could mop the paint off the floor. And fuck Henry Bowers! No one had ever tied to kiss her before.

  
What a bust. 


End file.
